Severus: A Prayer
by Clere
Summary: In the doorway between life and death . . . sort of a writing game for me, really. Remus-Severus


Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books, Remus, and Severus all belong to J.K. Rowling.

Notes: I don't actually like this story that much - I'm really more posting it because it gave me the idea for a sort of **_writing game_**: Using two characters (I'd prefer Remus and Severus, of course) write a story where one of them says (almost) nothing but the other's name. The other character can talk as much or little as you'd like. I don't know if anyone else would find this fun, but I thought I'd put it out there. Story, by the way, Remus' point of view, and he does say one word besides "Severus." I tried.

* * *

"Severus." 

Remus blinked. His eyes felt dry and scratchy, and a detached bit of his mind was surprised to find them dry. The rest of his mind was too busy screaming or blubbering gibberish to notice. That small, infuriatingly calm piece of his mind, however, insisted on supplying him with pertinent, clinical information.

Cruciatus.

For hours.

For at least as long as the Longbottoms had suffered, if not longer. Damn Albus! In that moment Remus hated him almost as much as he hated Voldemort. If it wasn't for Dumbledore's foolish idea that Voldemort would believe a double agent who had already played him false, then Severus would be safe in Hogwarts and not – not coughing up blood and likely cursed beyond all sanity. Not sprawled on Remus' doorstep because he had no strength to stand. Damn Albus and damn the war and damn them all. Remus refused to send Severus to St. Mungo's. But looking down at the man, and knowing the curse, it would be a miracle if Severus survived long enough to send. What was he doing here? He should have apparated directly to St. Mungo's. If he'd had any _sense _–

Remus checked himself, trying not to flinch, kneeling heavily beside Severus' head. His skin was white, pale and clear from the hours of unendurable pain, and his lips were tinged red with blood. The crescent moon danced over hair that seemed impossibly black against his crystalline skin. He was beautiful there, dying on Remus' doorstep in the snow-laden night, and the werewolf souled man sobbed as he gathered the chill body into his arms.

"Severus," he murmured, rocking against the doorframe, burying his face into hair whitened with snow, smelling of winter and agony. "Severus."

Over and over again, a litany, a binding spell and a plea for the man's soul. He did not need Severus to be sane – Remus would happily surrender them both to St. Mungo's, if only he lived. It was a war and Remus was the last soldier standing. He had been at home, had been _sleeping_ while Severus suffered the cruciatus. Remus had never felt the curse, would never know how terrible it was.

But he did know. He knew that it made Severus' slender hands tremble and made him flinch at the slightest touch as though he'd been slapped. Knew that it turned dark, beautiful eyes into chasms, dizzying and empty. Knew that Severus' brilliant mind could never escape his body the way he'd always wanted it to, the body he saw as ungainly and stupid, useful only for torturing him. The body Remus tasted and worshipped and mended with his tongue and his eyes and his hands, and the soul that he did the same for with his voice and his love.

"Severus."

The body felt so light in his arms now, so thin and cold from the air. The mind and soul were lost somewhere and Remus did not know how to find them, would spend forever trying if only the body would survive. He should go inside, he knew, but could not move from where he'd fallen, the snow covering them both. A benediction. Remus had no voice left to mend with, did not know how to battle Death or sing to him, had no one to plead his case to. But that did not stop him from pleading all the same.

"Severus."

His voice caught, and he bent his head to keep the faint, uneven heartbeat in his ears. _Severus, you can't die. You can't die because . . . Because I need you. Because I thought that I could face every morning alone and I was wrong. Because without you there is nothing left for me to fight for, there is no one left to fight with. Because, damn you, you're not all I have left in this world, you're not even important or deserving or – but you're all that matters. You're all I want, and I don't care if you go stark raving mad and drool and I have to spoon feed you porridge and give you baths . . . Just don't die. Don't die._

And before he knew it the sun was rising, pale winter sky brightening as the snow stopped falling and the dawn filtered through the trees. Remus lifted his head, barely able to hear the weak pulse, cursing himself for leaving Severus in the cold for so long – they were both going to die from exposure. His limbs were stiff with frost and his throat raw from his one word prayer.

"Severus."

The rising sun did not do Severus justice as the moon had, laying out the sharp angles of the wizard's face, its harsh light dwelling pointedly on how clearly unable the man was to last any longer than the dawn. Remus closed his eyes and did not let go.

"Severus."

And it was a hoarse breath begging, offering his soul to whoever would take it. He hid from the sun's ugly truths in the midnight of hair that smelled like too many things – memories and desires and love and regret and pat and future and oh, his eyes were not dry because those were his tears making crystals that glinted in Severus' dark hair as he rocked them both in time to his own heartbeat, willing the earth to orbit a new path.

"Severus." A plea, a command, a prayer, an offering, a sacrifice. Anything at all, only . . . "_Live_, Severus."

Dark eyes, under eyelashes aged with snow.

"Remus."

And Severus did.


End file.
